Sterling Fire
by Aine Deande
Summary: This short story is the unraveling of an, as far as I know, yet uncovered scenario based on ch. 101: What if Dr. Lecter had rejected Clarice's offered breast? This scene takes place the day after, as they're trying to come to terms with their feelings...


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_ E mentre l'esca è presa, è fatto. _ (And as the bait is taken, it is done.)

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A/N: This short story is the unraveling of an, as far as I know, yet uncovered 'What if'-scenario, related to Chapter 101... what if Dr Lecter had rejected her offered breast? This is a scene that takes place the day after, as they're trying to come to terms with their feelings. 

A little insight for the readers: Dr Lecter is trying to hold himself back, unsure for the first time in his life if he can take what he wants now. With Clarice, every notion he has about himself is turned upside down, and he for once has no idea what the next step will be. It is up to Clarice, who is now dealing with a severe case of inner conflict: hurt over his rejection, surprise at the hurt, a strong desire, and uncertainty as well, but more as to how she can convince him to come to her... Enjoy!

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Sterling Fire

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By Áine Déande

~*~*~*~

Dr Lecter stands about two feet away from Clarice, watching as she gathers to her the necessary ingredients for the afternoon soup she's preparing for the both of them. 

They have not spoken, except for the politely exchanged "Good morning" as they met each other in this same kitchen at sunrise. In the light of the waking sun they had sat together at the dinner table, absolute quiet accompanying every minute. Dr Lecter had prepared breakfast, and although no word had been said it seems only natural in this moment that Clarice takes care of lunch.

Not a word about the previous evening. The silence laughs mockingly at their stupidity. The pressing air tastes of rejection, and hurt. There has been a subtle change visible in Clarice Starling since he saw her again this morning, after. . . A certain strain in the way her jaw is set, as though determined not to show to him her inner conflicts. . .

She had looked like this, once: when he had been ridiculing her down in the dungeons, far, far back in a dim and ever fading past, about her Southern mountain drawl. 

Dr Lecter pushes the unpleasant memories away from his troubled mind, and replenishes the corridors of his palace instead with new images of her. His eyes return to her, and unaware of the motion himself he takes a lingering step forward. For a moment, unseen by Dr Lecter for her head is turned away, the corner of Clarice's mouth goes up a fraction, as though she were a child placing food crumbs before a robin and the little bird has just taken the bait.

She works in a swift and focused fashion, he notes, always concentrating on one task at a time, as is the appropriate method for this type of activity. He watches as she takes the keen knife reserved for the cutting up of the carrots that she needs, according to the receipt. The hilt fits in her hand like an extension of her being, the cutting edge in her character, the weapon of the warrior.

It is when she focuses on a task like this one that her beauty shines through most manifestly. She is in her element here, submitting that penetrating brain of hers to knowledge age-old, born before her time, applied for numerous causes long after she's gone. She can turn something common into something gold, even when it comes to such a simply thing as cooking. The action colors her cheeks and opens her mouth a fraction, it loosens her limbs and adds the sparkle to the cerulean eyes that hold him trapped.

Her voice, firm and plain, shakes him out of his reverie. "Could you hand me the cheese, please? And the parsley too, if you don't mind."

She continues to slice up the carrots, dividing them into square, equal sections each.

"And you're standing too close to me," she says casually, without missing a beat, "I can't breathe when you're this near."

Suddenly she can sense his body becoming very still, though she cannot see him out of the corner of her eye. A stillness as subtle, and deliberate as anything she's ever seen. 

A stillness unreal. This is the calm before the storm. And as her mind begins to realize this, Clarice's body unconsciously reacts to the as yet unformed knowledge. 

What she can't know, but what Dr Lecter can see is the almost unnoticeable pursing of her lips, so lightly anyone but he, for his entire being is concentrated on her, would have missed it. The slight, very slight tautening of her back, as her breasts are pushed forward by the movement. Her hand holding the sharp knife has stopped above the carrot slices. Her breath has stilled in her throat. The moment freezes, and stretches.

It has happened before she can register it.

No more than two, three steps are taken, a whish of fabric, and Dr Lecter turns her around in one swift movement, facing her now, takes her hands, pushes her body back, back, to the stand behind them. He pins her hands, palms turned to his open hands, to the edge of the table, and presses her body against it, both of them still standing upright, held in place by forces beyond limb control, no more than a hint of space between them. 

It is then that all rational thought leaves her mind.

He stands almost fully against her, their bodies parted only there where her collarbone meets the upper half of his torso. Their mouths are but a mere inch apart and when he starts to mutter things she is sure his lips touch her own ever so airily. It is a probing, begging pleasure and she knows there and then nothing, _nothing _of the tension that had been there before could match this, this _agony_, this force to course through her like wind, like a puff of ice that slithers down every nerve ending in her body. 

She wants to scream but she knows that if she moves but a muscle, she is lost and he with her. She can't move and she can't _not _move, with him this close and words he speaks sliding off her like rain, she doesn't know what he's saying, only that he speaks and his breath tickles her face, her mouth and there is nothing, nothing she can do to change what is happening. This goes beyond her, beyond him, and she knows, with a clarity of mind she didn't yet know she possessed, that something earth-changing is about to happen. And then she realizes they are already lost. 

It is with great self-discipline that Clarice manages to recall the words he had whispered into her slightly open mouth and not collapse on the spot. He was repeating them to her, or himself, as though they were the only grasp he had left on normalcy, on reality, the delay of the inevitable. He was now closer than skin, closer than breath.

"Stop me," is all she can make out when she feels as though she might pass out if she doesn't take another breath soon. His breathing is ragged and despite their nearness of body and the fact that he is forcefully hovering over her, she can feel only his fist, clenching and unclenching just above her hand, making her gasp with the raw contact of his bare flesh over hers. Her eyes are locked on his lips that break out the words once more. 

"Stop me, Clarice_._" A mantra to prolong their predicament, before the earth turns and black becomes white before their eyes, becomes gray. Before everything would be altered.

"_Stop me._"

And she looks up into the red spinning wheels of his dark, dark maroon eyes and says

"I can't. I can't."

A moment wavering, a moment lost — and when their lips close over each other it is unclear who lunged first. It is unsure where she began and he ended, if there was a difference at all. As it turns out, it was Dr Lecter who pulled her to him, and Clarice whose hand first came around his neck, to pull him ever closer, closer

And then, just when her mind has begun to clamp down on the situation, just when the warmth spreading throughout her body reaches its focus point and stars plummet from the sky behind her closed eye-lids, just then Dr Lecter pulls away.

He walks away from her to a corner of the room, and doesn't say anything for what seems like minutes on end. She keeps her eyes firmly on his back. Then, just as she thought he'd turned to stone, he speaks.

"I'm sorry. I indulged," he says, his breath oncoming. He turns to her, his mind says no but his body betrays him and he faces her direction. She is still standing before the table, and says nothing.

She just stands there, breathing. That is all she does. She breathes in and her chest swells so that her breasts push against the fabric of the half unbuttoned white blouse she is wearing. She breathes out, and he can actually see the puff of air leave her lips, as it wavers a bit, making the blossomed red upon them appear brittle, as though a shiver were moving through them as she takes in another tremulous breath. All the while she stares at him with unblinking, almost unseeing eyes. 

Her gaze is on him, yet wavers slightly, like a candle would. For one moment her eyes dart in the direction of his own, then she focuses on the space between his eyes, then back again. It is as though she trusts only her gaze to give her certainty, and only the complete awareness of his presence can grant her what she needs. Her gaze is all that is centered about her in this lingering moment. And even that about her seems to quiver. 

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She is as fragile as an autumn leaf, and her hands clutch the side of the tabletop behind her as though she might fall without it. 

He is out of words. He is outside of himself.

He is completely entranced by her.

And when he steps to her again, it seems as right as anything in this world could be.

_ fin _

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A poem about the story

Bound

They stand in the kitchen

The light is just right

They're looking for a beat

Of something special tonight

She does her thing but it's

On the automatic pilot

For in her head she's swimming

In her head it's quite a riot

He watches her breathing

Watch her stand amidst the common

And she stands out like a flame

Like the silver from the iron

Every breath's a struggle

When together they are

For forbidden's their attraction

And the guilt would reach too far

When still becomes the motion

And chemicals arise

Creating feelings, pulsing, gripping, throbbing

And the time turns in this moment

When there's nothing left to do

But to give in to the fire

That is burning through their barriers of old

Lost in the oblivion that comes with blinding lust

They circle one another, predator to prey

Desire to desire

Slick blue to red

Standing in the wake of dancing tongues in open fire

Having far surpassed the stopping sign

All they have to do is cross the line

And it is done

And they are damned

Cursed to a love that turns them reckless

Bound to a love that makes them soulless

Without the other

Ever the other

And as the bait is taken, it is done

~*~*~*~


End file.
